


Dismas and friends

by Vault_Emblem



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Companionable Snark, Enemies to Friends, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Platonic Relationships, Redemption, Self-Flagellation, Self-Harm, Sparring, Trust Issues, Writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25266205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vault_Emblem/pseuds/Vault_Emblem
Summary: The Hamlet's full of weird people. How exactly is Dismas going to navigate through them all?
Relationships: Dismas & Everybody, Dismas & Reynauld (Darkest Dungeon), HIghwayman & Houndmaster, Highwayman & Abomination (Darkest Dungeon), Highwayman & Antiquarian, Highwayman & Arbalest, Highwayman & Bounty Hunter, Highwayman & Crusader, Highwayman & Everybody, Highwayman & Flagellant, Highwayman & Grave Robber, Highwayman & Hellion, Highwayman & Jester, Highwayman & Leper, Highwayman & Man-at-Arms, Highwayman & Musketeer, Highwayman & Occultist, Highwayman & Plague Doctor
Comments: 36
Kudos: 87





	1. Abomination

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try and write something not romantic for a change and this was the perfect excuse. Besides, this is also an occasion to write about all the characters, something I doubt I would've done on my own.  
> I have some things planned for certain characters while for others... well. It'll be interesting.

What Bigby had in mind was to spend a few hours chatting with doctor Paracelsus; not only her new makeshift lab is far enough to be considered an isolated place, and isolated places have become his best friend since the accident, but she is also one of the few people who actually like his presence. Besides, it’s been so long since he could have conversations about science with someone who knows what they’re talking about; it certainly is a breath of fresh air. There’s also the fact that Paracelsus has also a great interest on the other him, but for once he doesn’t mind: if the two of them work together, who knows, maybe they’ll be able to make sense of this and, hopefully, find a way to, if not cure him completely, at least help him control it - though he’d say that he’s gotten better at it over the years.

He wasn’t certainly expecting to find _him_.

Not that there’s anything wrong with the highwayman, but it surely is a surprise to see Dismas - and the irony of that name always brings a smile to Bigby’s lips - leaning over Paracelsus’ working desk while there is no sign of her.

Despite being calmer than he’d be if it was anyone else - Dismas is another who doesn’t have problems with him, unlike _some_ people - all he can manage to blurt out is still a pretty awakard:

“Huh… Should I leave?”

That earns a chuckle from Dismas.

“Hell if I know,” he shrugs, “Doc just took a sample of my blood and she went to study it, said it might take a while.”

“She must’ve found something interesting in it if she’s studying it,” especially considering that during this time of the day they always have their daily chat. Makes him wonder what Dismas has been doing for her to take such an interest.

“Not really,” Dismas replies, scratching his head and looking away, “I got attacked by one of those fungi things and she’s making sure it didn’t infect me or something.” Despite the gravity of the situation, he doesn’t seem particularly preoccupied, though if it’s out of carelessness about his fate or faith on his wellbeing, this Bigby can’t say.

This also makes him realize that the party that had been sent in the weald is back; he completely missed it - not that he likes to hang around the hamlet after all.

“How did it…” He feels like such a fool for asking, but he just wants to know if there has been any dead, even though he doesn’t even remember exactly who went.

“We’re all alive, if that’s what you’re wondering about,” Dismas replies. Saying fine would’ve been too big of a stretch - nobody’s fine here. Alive is enough.

“Oh… that’s good.”

If Paracelsus is busy, Bigby should leave, and yet he doesn’t move one step. He and Dismas settle in a comfortable silence as they wait for the doctor to be done. At a certain point, Dismas even begins to whistle a song that Bigby doesn’t recognize.

He doesn’t look tense nor guarded, he doesn’t seem to be wary of him even if they’re in such close quarters, which Bigby finds weird. He figured he hasn’t made it this far living as a criminal by blindly trusting everybody, so why doesn’t this apply to the situation they’re in?

Eventually Dismas notices that there’s something going on with him, but his voice isn’t accusatory as he asks:

“Something’s wrong?”

“Why?” Bigby blurts out before he can stop himself, “Why do you treat me like this? Aren’t you afraid?”

The silence becomes more tense as Dismas looks at him, and Bigby fears that he has overstepped the unsaid boundary that all of them have set, the one where you don’t go asking people about their past. It’s not anger what he sees in Dismas’ eyes however; more than anything, he looks haunted, and Bigby can’t help but to wonder what that gaze hides, what’s going on inside his head.

Then everything goes back to normal. Dismas seems to be back to the land of the living, instead that who knows where and when, and this time, his voice is awfully serious.

“I’ve seen real monsters. You ain’t one.”

Now this is truly curious, and there’s so much more Bigby wants to ask, but he doesn’t want to ruin the mood further.

At least that good natured silence doesn’t take too much time to come back, as they both get back to waiting for Paracelsus, but Bigby’s making a mental note that it’s more than likely that talking to Dismas can be safe too. He’d be even willing to try the tavern for him - everybody knows that’s where he likes to spend his nights. If things go south, he can always make his escape, and who knows, maybe Dismas would be willing to help him.

Yes, today he’ll try to go to the tavern. Been a while since he’s been in one after all.


	2. Antiquarian

How shitty can his life be, that this is considered a breath of fresh air? Dismas doesn’t even want to think about that. Still, going back on the road to rob people isn’t exactly what he thought he’d be doing during his time in the Hamlet.

Not that he’s robbing in the actual sense of the word. It’s just that Josephine has heard rumors about a smuggling ring that sells trinkets and curiosities to whoever has enough money to buy them, and she wanted to check it out. Of course, she couldn’t do this alone, and she knew exactly who she could ask for help. Dismas should’ve taken offense at what she implied - “since you’re more of an expert than me on the subject…” she had said - in the end, she isn’t totally wrong. Besides, if it helps her not get killed by some criminal scum, he’s game.

They may or may not also have received a full endorsement from the nomad wagon merchant, who’s gotten tired of having competitors. If they happen to stumble upon something that Josephine doesn’t need or care about, Dismas’ allowed to sell them to the wagon at a special prize. With such a reward, how was he supposed to say no?

Turns out, the “smuggling” ring was just a group of lucky fools who got hold to a lost stash of items that was supposed to get to the Hamlet. It wasn’t the dangerous adventure neither Josephine nor Dismas had in mind but hey, they’re not going to complain, not when they finally have their hands on what remains of the stash, after Dismas has taken care of the brigands.

“Mmmh… Interesting…” Josephine mutters as she scans through all the curiosities. Dismas has no idea about what she’s finding so interesting - he really isn’t an expert - so she leaves her to do her thing, deciding that speaking now would just distract her and surely she wouldn’t like that.

Yes, he’ll stay quiet… At least until his eyes land on the censer she always takes with her.

“What’s in that thing?” he asks, and thankfully at his curiosity doesn’t seem to anger Josephine. Actually, she seems happy that someone asked.

“Salts and spices I’ve found in my travels,” she replies, and that sends Dismas’ mind wandering. Josephine may not be that useful when it comes to pure combat, but the things she makes them inhale… They have an effect, empowering ones: they make them more aware and responsive, make them move faster, they sharpen their senses.

“Salts and spices?” he asks, and he can’t help the smirk to form on his face, smirk that is thankfully hidden by the neckerchief, “Is that an euphemism for something else?”

“If you are referring to drugs, I believe I must disappoint you” Josephine begins, “Enhancers these may be, they’re not actually drugs.”

“Ah…”

Silence falls between them. It appears they have nothing else to say to each other.

Dismas was expecting things to continue this way, at least until Josephine’s voice breaks the silence.

“I might have something similar to what you’re referring to back in the barracks,” Josephine says, “And I might be willing to share some, since you helped me and everything.”

At first Dismas doesn’t reply, he just goes back to stare at Josephine. Then, he smiles.

“Oh, I’d love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they both got high. The end.


	3. Arbalest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bit hard because honestly at first I didn't have any ideas about what to write, but I gotta say I'm happy with how this chapter turned out

“Stop squirming!” Missandei exclaims, trying, and failing, to tighten the bandages around Dismas’ ankle, “We’ll never get this over with if you don’t.”

“It hurts!” Dismas protests, making the other sigh.

“It’s not that bad. Seriously, stop acting like a child!” she tries, but to no avail. They should’ve brought a healer with them so at least she wouldn’t be dealing with this.

She doesn’t know why she’s even bothering, but it wouldn’t be fair to leave him to his own devices, especially considering that he took a hit that was meant for her. Speaking of which…

“Why did you do it?” she can’t help but to ask.

They’ve been ambushed and in the confusion she had ended up on the front lines. She fired her crossbow at the cultist in front of her, but she missed. Groaning from the frustration, she went to reload, but the cultist was close and she was never going to be ready in time. Was that going to be it? Was this how she was going to die?

Right before the cultist could hit her, however, somebody pushed her away. It was Dismas.

He had managed to get to her just in time to push her out of the way, but even in the momentum, the cultist managed to scrape his leg. It wasn’t anything too serious, but it was still something they were going to check out later, not before winning this skirmish.

Missandei and Dismas fell back; since he couldn’t move as he usually would, all he could do was to put his shooting skills to use - he didn’t need to be in close quarters with the enemy for that.

After they were done, they’ve decided to set up camp. There was no point going around the ruins with Dismas limping like that, which brings us back to the current situation.

Missandei’s question hangs in the air.

There really isn’t much to it, instincts are hardly easy to explain, so Dismas just shrugs.

“Eh. You’re young, I’m old. If anyone’s going to get hit, better me than you.”

At least having him explain himself is a good distraction and Missandei manages to patch him up, all while listening to Dismas’ enunciating worse and more stupid injuries he got, like when a cat almost tore his eye off because he had bothered it at the wrong time, or when he almost died with his pants off because it turned out that a lady in a local brothel was actually a noblewoman in search of a more forbidden romance. Missandei chuckles; somehow she can perfectly imagine the scene.

After making a last knot, she announces that she’s done. “There you go. Next time try not to get hit again if you have to make such a fuss later.”

“Sorry about that…” Dismas mutters, face half-hidden by the neckerchief - though Missandei swears she can spot a faint blush.

“You saved me before. I’d say we’re even,” she says then, and the matter can be considered over.

This doesn’t mean that Missandei’s mind doesn’t wander. It’s hard to put together the image of the lethal killer Dismas and the jovial - almost clumsy - one; it’s a problem she’s had with him since they first met, and she doubts this is something that will be solved overnight.

Still, he has demonstrated countless times that he cares for the team and he’s still helping them, so at least as far as this discussion can go, she can at least say that he’s alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I'll learn how to spell Arbalest without having to look it up


	4. Bounty Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I don't think I've mentioned this before, but if you want to talk to me about this you can find me on tumblr [@bi-naesala](https://bi-naesala.tumblr.com) and on twitter [@vault_emblem](https://twitter.com/vault_emblem)

To say that Dismas and Tardif don’t get along would be an understatement.

Even during their first meeting at the tavern they caused a commotion. If nobody had told Tardif that the thief was under the Heir’s protection, he would’ve cashed in the very large bounty on his head; it would’ve been hard - even if he isn’t that young anymore, the criminal hits hard and has good aim - but Tardif believes in his abilities. Still, that day they had to stop before they could’ve killed each other. A shame.

Even if he doesn’t go out of his way to antagonize him, this doesn’t mean that Tardif likes him, or that he hasn’t come up with a few backup plans when he inevitably betrays them or when he’ll inevitably be caught stealing from them.

Being a loner by nature at least helps him avoid certain situations, because as opposed to how he acts, the thief is very chatty, too much so actually. It makes Tardif’s effort not to crush his windpipe harder, but at least they both have the good sense to avoid each other, even if sometimes they have to work together.

During these moments, at least the criminal makes himself useful, and Tardif can use these occasions to observe him - it helps him plan better - which, of course, doesn’t mean that he’s so distracted that he doesn’t pull his weight - he can multitask.

As more time passes, however, things begin to change. It’s subtle as first, but as Tardif begins to actually settle in the Hamlet and to get used to its people, he begins to see the thief… not exactly as a friend, but also not as someone he’ll have to eventually kill - even though sometimes the temptation is still hard to resist.

Ironically, what was once source of irritation - his voice - starts to become reassuring: if they’re deep in the weald with a quarter of supplies left and hordes of fungal creatures to fight and Dismas still makes jokes, then things aren’t too bad. The worse thing is that, now that Tardif actually pays attention to what he’s saying, he’s actually kind of funny; he might’ve quietly laughed at some of his jokes, even though he always makes sure to disguise it as a cough or a snort, even though he’s starting to believe that, by the way he turns to look at him, Dismas knows that he’s just pretending not to be amused.

Tardif doesn’t know if he should find this amusing or irritating, so he settles on neutral - neutral is good, neutral is safe.

Even now, after they’ve settled camp, Dismas’ voice manages to keep him calm as they’re keeping watch.

Tardif has just run over a few strategies and he’s now looking around for potential threats hiding between the rotten trees; he hates this place, but to be fair he’d say that about all the other places in this horrible land.

Dismas, in the meantime, is cleaning his gun, but of course he doesn’t do so silently.

Maybe it’s a sign that all the horrors he witnesses daily are getting to him, but Tardif doesn’t tell him to stop whistling, despite the fact that it makes them all a potential target to anyone who could hear them.

Again, it’s reassuring, and maybe Tardif should be scared of this, scared of how a criminal can warm his way into his graces, but having such thoughts now would be a pointless waste of time and, worse, a distraction, so Tardif drops them. He’s always been more of a practical guy anyway; he’ll leave thinking to the people who really need it.

What he focuses on now is how hearing such a light-hearted tune in such a dreadful place makes him feel: alive.


	5. Crusader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: spoilers for the end of the game!

Dismas realizes he had blacked out only when he wakes up.

The last things he remembers is that monster, the Heart, the fear that almost overtook him - overtook all of them - and then a bright light and… Reynauld!

The man in question is also on the ground, just a few feet on the left, and he too seems to be coming to just now.

Immediately Dismas checks his surroundings, but for once everything seems to be calm, peaceful. He should be worried that they’ve woken up outside the old estate, but if he’s learned something by this entire experience, is that sometimes things happen and it’s best not to ask questions.

“Are you okay?” he asks, hurrying towards him to help him up, and Reynauld grunts affirmatively. He feels weak, but there aren’t any grave injuries.

“And you?” the crusader asks then, inspecting Dismas with worry.

“I’m good,” he says, looking as surprised as Reynauld that they’re both fine. It’s like every injury has been healed during the time in which they have been out.

“So… it’s over?” His voice trembles when he speaks. It makes him feel like a fearful child, but mercifully if Reynauld notices, he doesn’t point it out. Not that his voice is so much better when he speaks.

“Yes. It is done.”

Those simple words give Dismas a sense of finality. It’s what he needed to hear before processing that yes, the pain, the fear, the deaths… It’s all over.

He thinks of all the people they’ve lost - they even lost two during this last battle. Now they can rest in peace, knowing that their sacrifice wasn’t in vain.

Reynauld goes to remove his helmet. It’s not the first time this happens, but now Dismas can see how tired he is, and he’s sure Reynauld must be thinking the same about him as he goes to lower his neckerchief.

And yet, there’s also a strange feeling in the air: Dismas feels lighter, almost like all of his sins have been erased. That’s not true: his past will never stop haunting him, he feels like, but he can at least take pride in what he accomplished this day, on the good he did. Does Reynauld feel it too?

“Is this the redemption we were looking for?” he asks, because he needs to know, and surely someone like Reynauld, who has always the answer ready, will know.

“I believe so, my friend,” he replies in fact, though he’s much less sure that Dismas has anticipated. It’s fine, they can figure it out together.

He brings his attention to the man in front of him when he feels his hand gently resting on his shoulders.

“However, redemption is something that must be earned every day…” Ugh, not a lecture now.

Thankfully, all it takes is a look from Dismas for him to change course. “But of course we shall rest and enjoy life for a while.”

That’s what he thought.

As they make their way back to the Hamlet to give everybody the good news, Dismas is thinking.

He and Reynaud go a long way back: they’ve been the first ones to arrive to the Hamlet, they’ve seen it grow again, become full of people and life, they’ve met all the adventurers who came and went, buried comrades, laughed, cried, fought together. Who knew that such a boastful oaf could become such a prized companion?

“Hey, remember when we first met? You accused me of stealing from the Heir,” he says. There’s no venom to his voice, as they’ve learned to laugh about their first interactions - they used to butt heads quite a lot, something that they still do, but without the sense of friendship that is there now.

“And you used to call me tin can head,” the other retorts in fact, chuckling. Dismas’ eyes lay on the helmet that he’s holding with his arm instead of wearing it like usual, and actually it does look a bit like a tin can from a certain angle.

“Well, it’s not like I’m wrong,” he mutters, and after Reynauld lightly shoves him with his shoulder, they both laugh.

“What I wanted to say is that…” Dismas begins then, stopping in his tracks, and Reynauld with him, looking at him expectantly. Dismas then stretches his open palm towards him. “Of all the people I could’ve been stuck with for this journey… I’m glad it was you, Reynauld.”

There’s a stunned look on the crusader’s face, like he wasn’t expecting what Dismas said - c’mon he’s allowed to get sappy from time to time, especially considering the circumstances. Defeating an eldritch horror that could’ve potentially destroyed all mankind isn’t exactly something that happens every day after all.

Once he recovers, Reynauld goes to immediately take the hand that has been offered to him, and despite still wearing his gauntlets, his grip is quite gentle.

“Likewise, Dismas,” he says, and is Dismas hallucinating, or is Reynauld tearing up a little? “I’m happy that we met.”

Dismas registers Reynauld’s movements too late, and now he’s engulfed in his arms. It’s a hug, he realizes; Reynauld’s hugging him. What choice does Dismas have, then, if not hugging him back?

Maybe, and just maybe, they cry a bit in each other’s arms, but that’s only for them to know. Besides, releasing tension is good, especially when the stakes were that high.

Once they pull away, however, Dismas knows he has to put an end to this. Sappy is fine, but not for too long.

“What do you say we go to the tavern? I’ll pay.”

“You? Paying?” Reynauld asks, feigning surprise, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Dismas huffs, pretending to be offended despite the fact that Reynauld’s right - he has a tendency to not pay for his drinks - and he begins to walk away without waiting for the other.

“Well, if you don’t hurry I might change my mind,” he shouts to him then, and Reynauld’s immediately on his tail.

“Right behind you, friend!”

Dismas can hear the laughter in his voice - experiencing such levity maybe for the first time since he’s set foot in the Hamlet - and, well, he can’t help but to smile as well.

Now they can enjoy their well earned reward.


	6. Flagellant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: self-harm!
> 
> I mean, it's the flagellant we're talking about so it is to be expected, but just to be safe

It’s always painful to lose a teammate, no matter the circumstances. What’s worse, however, is how much they’ve all gotten used to it; there’s so much death and destruction around them that losing a companion has become part of the experience, as horrible as it may sound.

Dismas isn’t a stranger to death, but he still finds it eerie. He hasn’t come this far only to become food for vermin, left and forgotten.

Everyone was present as the body got lowered to the ground, or at least almost everyone; still, the people who mattered were there.

How ironic that this is one of the rare occasions when they all gather together. Oh well, things could be worse he supposes, though one could argue that things are already bad as they are. There’s no need for worse.

They all have left, one by one; Dismas is the only one remaining. Someone said some words of goodbye, someone went to touch the tomb for a last contact before having to leave, someone just stared in quiet contemplation.

It’s time for Dismas to go as well - mourning for too long can be dangerous in this place - when he hears steps approaching.

Ah, it’s the weirdo.

To this day, Dismas still doesn’t know what to think about this flagellant guy who one day decided to make his mission to aid them in their purging quest.

All he knows about him is that his name his Damian and that he’s a maniac. Even the other more religious people barely get along with him, not that he interacts much with anyone in general.

Dismas should leave, but his curiosity as to what nonsense Damian will get into is too strong, so he stays there, nodding at the other in acknowledgement - not that he returns the gesture, the asshole.

You know what? Screw being nice - some people just don’t deserve it.

“You didn’t even come for the funeral,” he accuses Damian, because he’d figured someone as religious as him would’ve been present for such an important rite.

“I was busy,” Damian has the guts to respond, with that tone of someone who knows better than everyone else that really grinds Dismas’ gears.

“I figured something like this should take priority over everything.”

“I am here now, am I not?”

They could go back and forth for who knows how long, so Dismas decides to do the sensible thing and ignores him; it may not be the most mature thing to do, but Dismas is really trying not to punch anyone’s teeth today and if Damian keeps talking he just might.

He was expecting Damian to begin a big speech, like the ones he uses to unleash on his enemies, speeches that belong more to a madman than a sane person, but after all everyone here is a bit crazy.

Strangely, however, Damian is quiet.

There’s still a creepy air around him, but at least it’s easier to ignore him if he’s quiet. If things stay like this, Dismas could might as well leave, but he still doesn’t. Why? He has no idea. The only thing he knows is that his legs are glued to the ground, so he keeps watching Damian, trying to find something, anything, that could help him crack this nonsensical puzzle.

Then, out of nowhere, Damian talks again.

“I’m going to atone now.”

“Mh?”

Damian doesn’t even turn to him, gaze fixed on the tomb.

“I said,” he repeats, calm, but that kind of calm that always precedes a storm, “That I’m going to atone now.”

He doesn’t bother waiting for Dismas to react as his grip on his flail tightens and he raises it in the air, only to then strike himself on the back. Dismas is familiar with the act of self-flagellation; there was a group of madmen like this one who would practice it at the square of the old decrepit village he once lived in, and it always grossed him out.

He just doesn’t understand how this should help now: Damian won’t be raising the dead by mauling his flesh.

To Dismas, this is only a way for people to believe they’re superior. It’s just some self-serving bullshit.

If his so loved Light really appreciates what he’s doing, Damian should begin to worship something else, because this can’t be right. Life’s already painful by itself, why adding more to it?

He could address it, try to reason with him, but is it bad that the idea doesn’t even cross his mind? Even if he tried, what would he gain? Just a headache and a bloody fist.

What Dismas thinks about is to tackle him, remove him from this place, but again, would getting into a scuffle in such a place be worth it? He doesn’t think so.

What Dismas does, then, is to turn tail and, step by step, leave. It’s better to leave the madman to his delusions.

Even after he gets to the tavern and begins drinking, he still can hear the sound of the flail hitting Damian’s flesh and he has to fight down the bile that is rising.

He hates it.


	7. Grave Robber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bi royalty solidarity

Audrey finds herself drawn to the graveyard quite often, even if for the time being she has stopped her… _activities_.

These places have become her comfort zone, what she’s more familiar with. That’s why no matter what, she always ends up here.

She sighs, resting her hand on a tombstone, feeling the cold stone with her palm.

She has no idea who the person whom this tomb belongs to is. In the Hamlet, people come and go with an incredible speed; it’s hard keeping track of everyone.

They all end up here, eventually. It says something that the graveyard has all but doubled in size since her arrival.

Makes her wonder how long it will take for her to join the rest…

“What are you doing here all alone?” Audrey turns around and she sees Dismas, who’s looking at her with a smirk on his lips. “Came to take something from our fallen friends?”

Despite knowing that he’s not being serious - he isn’t, he never is - Audrey gets awfully defensive anyway. It’s a bit too much for something that has become an inside joke between them, but the gloomy thoughts she was having before have left a bad taste in her mouth, which doesn’t exactly put her in a good mood.

“I don’t do that anymore. Not here. Not with you.”

“Relax missy,” he says then, putting his hands up in a mock surrender, “I just came here to give you something.”

Oh? And what would Dismas have to give her? Color her curious.

“Here,” he says, handing her something she recognizes immediately. This was her last knife, the one she threw at a cultist before making her escape.

“I managed to get it back, but in all the chaos I hadn’t gotten occasion to give it you yet.”

“Aw, that’s very sweet of you, even though I’ve already commissioned new ones,” she says, taking her knife to examine it. It’s exactly as she left it. “I’m surprised you even decided to return it instead of keeping it to yourself.”

“I… I don’t do that anymore, at least not here, not with you,” Dismas mutters, clearly put on the spot by Audrey’s insinuation. Still, bravo for using her own words against her.

She shakes her head.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says then, gesturing to herself, “After all, who am I to judge, Dismas dear?”

That earns a chuckle from the other, and Audrey soon finds herself joining him.

“Such thieves we are,” she says then, and Dismas nods.

“A pair of shitty ones, if you ask me.”

“I like to think that, with all that we fight against every day, some solidarity is paramount.”

She really thinks that: if they don’t help each other, then what’s going to stop the darkness from swallowing them whole?

“Come now,” and she puts an arm around Dismas’ shoulders, “I’m tired of this place. I wouldn’t mind a visit to the tavern. My treat, of course.”

Dismas chuckles, a playful shine in his eyes that still doesn’t manage to hide that fact that he too, like Audrey, has many things he’d like to drown into alcohol.

“Now that’s some solidarity I can’t say no to.”


	8. Hellion

Dismas watches Boudica win another arm-wrestling match. She slams her opponent’s hand down like it weighs nothing - which to her is probably true - and immediately looks around.

“Who’s next?!” she screams, “I crave a challenge!”

She must be so bored, Dismas muses, given how easily she’s won every single challenge until now. Since the strongest people have already tried to beat her, he doubts she’ll have much fun tonight.

So is life, he thinks, downing the last of his beer in one go before slamming the tank on the table. However, he miscalculates and he puts too much force into what was supposed to be a simple movement, gathering the attention of everyone at the tavern and especially Boudica, who points an accusatory finger at Dismas.

“You!”

Dismas points at himself.

“Me?”

“Who else,” Boudica replies, harsh, “Come little man! Let me see what you’re made of!”

This is a bad idea, this is a _very_ bad idea. Not only will Dismas lose his dignity, but he might also lose his hand. He’s built on stealth, on agility, not raw strength. There’s no way he could beat her…

He stands up, shrugging.

“Sure.”

This has the potential to be fun, so why not?

Before settling on the stool in front of Boudica he makes a big show of getting rid of his coat, letting it hang behind him. Life wouldn’t be fun without theatrics.

He stares at the woman in front of him, studying her. She looks confident in her victory as she offers him her palm and well, Dismas doesn’t exactly blame her; he would be confident too if their positions were reversed.

Still, he has an ace up his sleeve that might turn the tables, so he wouldn’t be so sure about that.

He takes Boudica’s hand without a word, but he still can’t hide his smirk.

“You think you can win?” Boudica asks him, barely containing her amusement. She’s underestimating him. Good.

“Not really,” Dismas replies. He’s not lying: in normal circumstances he wouldn’t even dream to hope to defeat her in matters of strength.

Then his face suddenly pales as he stares at something behind his opponent.

“ _Look_.”

Boudica turns around immediately; if anyone wants to start shit with her, they’re more than welcome.

Having used that distraction, it’s easy for Dismas to slam her hand on the table, meeting no resistance.

“I suppose I win,” he says, having at least the good sense of letting her hand go so that she doesn’t crush him. Maybe this wasn’t the smartest move, but Dismas has always been a provoker, even when it would’ve been better to just mind his own business.

After a moment of stunned silence, in which Dismas begins to come to regret all the actions that brought him there, fearing that these could be his last moments as an alive man - though come on, wouldn’t this be an hilarious way to go? - Boudica laughs, slamming her hand on the table with a strength that makes Dismas happy that it was the wooden surface that she hit and not him.

“I like you, little man,” she says then, still laughing, but not before ordering drinks for everybody.

Between cheers and loud applause from all the patrons, Dismas can’t help but to smile.

“Eh, I like you too.”


	9. Houndmaster

First a bounty hunter, now a copper.

It makes sense since it’s usually good people - and not scum like him - that take care of a town’s problems no matter their nature, but he still doesn’t like it.

He knows he’s protected by the Heir, so he shouldn’t be able to touch him, but that doesn’t mean he’s completely safe.

No, he doesn’t trust this new arrival, but there’s a problem: he has a dog.

Sure, Dismas has already seen her tear through the enemies, but she’s still a dog.

It must be a tactic the cop uses to get people to lower their guard and to get into everyone’s good graces. Cops are corrupt and they corrupt people, so it wouldn’t be weird if that was the case.

Dismas won’t fall for it. He won’t…

He’s approaching the end of his guard shift, but Dismas doesn’t feel tired.

Even if he was, he’d be too tense to sleep. It’s always like this in the cove; if he closes his eyes he can feel the sea calling to him, so similar and yet so different from anything he feels in the other horrible places they venture to. Needless to say, he hates it.

He has no idea how the others manage to fall asleep here. He envies them, to be quite honest, but in the end it’s good that at least one of them is more wary.

Besides, he’s not alone.

He has to give it to the hound: he thought she was going to make a fuss and get them all jumped on, but she stayed in her place, quietly keeping watch as well.

Slowly, as not to alarm the beast, Dismas stretches a hand towards her.

“Come here, girl,” he calls for her, whispering in order not to wake up the others, “Come here.”

The hound, whose name is Fergus, if Dismas has heard correctly, eyes at him with what Dismas assumes is suspicion, but eventually she gets to him. By the way she’s wagging her tail, Dismas can only assume she’s happy to receive some attention.

“You’ve been awake for such a long time,” he says, petting her head with a smile on his face, “You’re such a good girl.”

“ _She is_.”

Dismas pulls away from the hound like he’s been bitten, but that still doesn’t stop the copper Willam from sending him an amused glare.

Damn it, that wasn’t something he wanted anyone to witness.

“You can pet her, I won’t tell you off,” Willam chuckles, and Dismas doesn’t really want to listen to him, but if he says it’s fine…

As he goes back to pet Fergus, he understands why Willam would want to keep her around. It’s soothing.

He still makes sure to keep an eye out for the cop, just in case he tries something, but unfortunately it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“There’s no need to look at me like that. We’re on the same team.”

_For now_ , Dismas thinks, but he’s smart enough to keep it for himself. Things are already hard on their own, there’s no need to make matters worse.

He just shrugs them, focusing his attention on the dog. How can she be so cute in a moment and then deadly the other? Dismas doesn’t know, but he appreciates it.

… There’s something he’s been wondering for a while, since the time when the cop made it clear that he wasn’t interested in bringing him to justice, something that at the time Dismas hadn’t believed.

Getting to know him better to discern whether he was actually telling the truth, however, implicates having a conversation, something Dismas doesn’t want.

Still, it may be the hound’s influence, but he feels almost relaxed and safe enough to do it.

Ah, what the hell, might as well satisfy his curiosity now that he’s still alive.

“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be hunting down criminals and apprehending them?” _Shouldn’t you be hunting me?_

That earns him a snort from Willam.

“I’m not a gendarme anymore. I left,” he says, barely doing anything to hide the bitterness in his voice.

“You left?” Now things are getting interesting. Why would anyone leave a privileged life such as the one of a cop? Seems pretty stupid according to Dismas.

Willam nods.

“Yes, I did…” he pauses. “In the end, cops are just another kind of brigands.”

“That’s why you left? Couldn’t bear some corruption?”

Dismas doesn’t know if he believes him; it seems too convenient that he’s so morally pure that he’d do something like this. Nobody is that incorruptible.

“Something like that,” is all Willam says.

It’s obvious that there’s more to the story than what he’s letting on, although if he wanted to share it, he would’ve done so, so Dismas doesn’t ask. Maybe another day, if they survive this hell that is.

He was probably one of those corrupt coppers before realizing the error of his ways and he’s here to repent or something like that.

He still doesn’t completely trust him, because he’s not a fool, but if what he says it’s true, if he really saw the corruption within the law system and decided not to take part in it, then at least Dismas can respect him.


	10. Jester

When Dismas wakes up, he wasn’t expecting to be welcomed to the living world by the sound of music. He has chosen this spot to nap exactly because it’s one of the most isolated places of the entire Hamlet, where the houses are empty and nature has taken control again, judging by the high number of trees and otherwise growing vegetation unbothered by all things human.

“He awakens.”

Dismas huffs hearing that voice, and looks up. Sitting on one of the branches of the tree under which he has decided to sleep, is a man dressed in jester’s garbs, face hidden by a mask.

“Sarmenti.”

“And hello you to you, Master Dismas! I trust you slept well? Did you have pleasant dreams?”

One could think that Sarmenti simply likes to get under people’s skins, but the truth is that is just how he is. Dismas understands, he thinks; his personality isn’t that sweet either. Sometimes this is the only way to protect yourself, and sure Dismas has no idea about how a royal court would function, but he can imagine how much it sucks; all those filthy rich people, uncaring of everything except themselves…

This is why he’s never felt remorse about his choice of “profession”, at least not until the accident.

What he wanted to say is that, despite what people might think, he doesn’t hate Sarmenti. It actually feels good to have another sarcastic asshole in the team - it makes him feel less alone. That of course doesn’t mean that they don’t have their healthy dose of bickering, but at least it keeps things interesting.

“As pretty as your mom’s face,” he says then, managing to get Sarmenti to genuinely laugh.

“Oh,” he says then, “Then I’m afraid it mustn’t have been that pleasant.”

“What are you doing up there?” Dismas can’t help but to ask, curious.

“Well you see,” Sarmenti begins, “I was on my way to my special spot to practice some new tunes that my mind concocted… But oh no! My spot was occupied by a sleeping brute! I had no other choice but to find a new spot where I could practice in peace.”

“Lemme guess… I’m the sleeping brute, am I not?”

A gasp leaves Sarmenti’s lips. “Such mental prowess! How did you know?”

Dismas huffs again, shaking his head.

“You know, you could’ve just waken me up,” he says then, “If I was bothering you I would’ve left.”

“Yes, I could’ve…” Sarmenti replies, “But then I would’ve had to deal with you being a grumpy butt because I disturbed your sleep.”

At those words Dismas can’t help but to sigh.

“Fair enough.”

Silence settles between them.

At first they can’t hear anything, not even the sound of animals - they’re not that far from the populated part of the Hamlet after all - but then the wind begins to pick up, rustling the trees’ leaves.

It’s so peaceful - a rarity for the Hamlet - that Dismas almost falls asleep, if not for the fact that eventually Sarmenti begins to play his lute, and Dismas forces himself awake, listening intently; he’d much rather listen to Sarmenti’s song, no matter how vulgar or offensive it’s going to be - because all his songs always are - than to the eerie silence that surrounded them. He doesn’t need a constant reminder that his situation is shit, ok?

Still, this song is… different, to say the least. There are no words first of all, and it’s clearly slower, more melancholic even. Dismas doesn’t know about music to be able to tell if it’s because it’s still a work in progress or if this is the final product.

He doesn’t ask, focusing instead on the music. It makes him feel awfully thoughtful, which is something he always tries to avoid, even though more often than not it’s hard escaping the thoughts in his head, especially when it’s this quiet. He doesn’t like being in his head; it’s not a nice place, hasn’t been for a long while.

And yet… this song isn’t completely sad. There’s a lighter part in the melody, one that fills Dismas with hope. It’s almost inspiring, like how it is during battle, where even just a few notes from Sarmenti are enough to give them some much needed courage.

That’s the power of art, he supposes. It’s definitely how he’d feel about it if he was a more cultured fellow.

Only when the song ends that Dismas speaks again.

“Was this the ‘new tune’ you were talking about before? It’s…”

“Different?” Sarmenti inquires.

“Yes,” Dismas replies, though he immediately adds, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Sarmenti doesn’t even deign him an answer for that poor excuse of a recovery, though he supposes he isn’t wrong. It’s this place that makes him feel like this. It’s always this place.

“Well, it’s not bad,” Dismas says then, which makes Sarmenti’s lips curl into an amused smile, because what does he know about music? Still, he doesn’t say anything about that.

“It’s still a work in progress,” he says then, like he actually needs to justify himself in front of Dismas. He has to remind himself that this isn’t the royal court anymore.

Dismas shrugs.

“You’re going to practice again?” he asks.

“Yes, why?” Sarmenti asks.

“No reason in particular,” Dismas replies then, getting comfortable again against the tree trunk, eyes already closed, “Don’t mind me, I’ll just be here taking another nap.”

“I do mind, actually,” Sarmenti replies, though Dismas makes no motion to leave. He sighs. “But I know trying to move you would be like asking to get my butt kicked, so I suppose I have no choice but to accept it.”

Dismas smirks, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“Attaboy.”

Sarmenti begins playing again, though this time there are also interruptions, moments in which he mumbles between himself, pondering which note is better than the other or how he should rewrite an entire segment.

Dismas lets him go undisturbed, enjoying the atmosphere surrounding him. Soon, he falls asleep, accompanied by the gentle sound of music.

And hey, if he wakes up and comes back to the barracks under everyone’s amused gaze and barely contained laughter only to find out that _someone_ has drawn a couple of ugly moustaches on his handsome face-- you know what? Let’s not even talk about that.

Let’s just say that Sarmenti will get what’s coming to him, Dismas will make sure of it.


	11. Leper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl this chapter was hard to write. Still, I hope you like it!

“Too corny? Yeah, too corny,” Dismas mutters, scribbling away the entire line he’s just written down.

This small notebook he managed to get at a higher cost than he’s willing to admit is already being wasted by writing complete horseshit. It’s a habit that he picked up since he was but a teenager, this one; he always had too much shit to say, so his ma’ bought him a notebook similar to this one, but of a much worse quality, so that he could “show off his skills,” she said, since he was the only one of the family who had been schooled, but in truth it was just so that he could finally shut up.

Well guess what, ma’? Now he both writes _and_ he doesn’t shut the fuck up. What a nice combo, right?

What does he write about, anyway? It’s poetry more or less, or at least something that gets close to it. Dismas feels way more comfortable calling them random thoughts, because even though he knows how to write and read, he’s not smart enough to actually write decent poetry. This is the reason why he does it only when he’s alone, because how could explain it to the others? Well, it’s not like he’s doing anything bad per se, but he’s sure they’re going to mock him for it, and this is already a delicate topic for him, he would like not to make things worse.

Let’s go back to what’s important: how the hell should he write this verse?

The more Dismas thinks about it, the more he rereads that entire page, the more he finds what he wrote horrible. There really is no saving this one.

He groans, a frustrated sound that leaves his mouth, and he rips his page off, making a ball of it and throwing it away in a fit of rage. Why did he decide to write today of all days? If inspiration didn’t strike him before, it wasn’t going to do it now!

He’s so angry that he doesn’t even notice where he throws the ball, at least until he hears a small clunk, like he hit something made of metal.

“That doesn’t seem good.”

_Oh_.

When Dismas turns, he sees Baldwin’s massive size looming over him.

“Sorry about that,” he says then, “Didn’t notice you.”

“All is well,” Baldwin replies, always calm, always like he’s above these futile things. Maybe this isn’t true, but it’s how Dismas sees him.

After all, even if they know nothing about who he actually is, you don’t just go around flaunting gold armor if you are just some poor street rat. Whatever he was before coming to the Hamlet, he was rich and powerful, had to be. Makes him wonder what happened that brought him here but well, a glance at his scarred and ruined face is answer enough. Who knew that even important people could get sick?

Dismas thought this was going to be the end of it, but apparently Baldwin is in a conversing mood today, because he notices what he was doing and he asks:

“Oh, were you writing?”

A sense of shame immediately overtakes Dismas and he closes his handbook with maybe a bit too much force for it to seem only a natural gesture.

“No,” he obviously lies. This is nothing he should be ashamed for and he knows it as well as he knows that, even if it was, Baldwin is too good at heart to make fun of him, but old habits die hard.

Of course Baldwin doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t say anything; he actually remains right there where he is, as if he’s waiting for something. Dismas sighs and motions for him to sit on the log beside him. It’s obvious that he’s not going to get anything done in the mood he’s in, so might as well have some company.

At first they stay like this in silence, then Baldwin speaks.

“You know, I used to write as well…”

This peaks Dismas’ interest.

“You did?”

“Yes,” Baldwin replies, staring off into the distance with what Dismas can only assume is longing - he can’t exactly tell since he’s wearing his usual mask. “Well, I wouldn’t say I was a professional writer however. It was more of an indulgence of mine.”

Dismas is really tempted to say that he should consider himself lucky that he could even indulge in such frivolous things, but he holds his tongue and instead he asks:

“Prose or poetry?”

“Oh, I was never able to write prose.”

Curious, just like him. He never managed to write anything exciting when he tried prose; that’s why he sticks only to poetry.

He and Baldwin don’t really know each other that well; they’re both guarded when it comes to their past, even though Dismas lacks Baldwin’s subtlety about it, so he knows that asking him directly would bring nothing new to the table. Still…

“Hey… Do you still have your poetry?”

Baldwin turns around to look at Dismas, who almost shies away from his gaze even though it doesn’t look like he has bad intentions.

“I might have something still, yes.”

“Well, then maybe we could, huh…” Dismas begins, scratching his neck. Why is it so hard? “Compare notes, so to speak.”

It wasn’t eloquent at all, and Dismas expects almost to be berated for it, maybe being made fun of. How is he supposed to write if he can’t even string a sentence well?

None of these things happen, and Baldwin actually looks happy about that proposition.

“I would love to,” he says in fact, adding then with a teasing tone, “So you’re willing to show your work now?”

Dismas replies with a smile and a shrug.

“Eh why not?”

It’s not like he has anything to lose.


	12. Man-at-Arms

To be quite frank, the first time Barristan laid his eyes on Dismas, he wouldn’t have given him a quarter. He’s a thief, not a soldier; there was no place for him on the battlefield.

Soon, however, he understood that this is no mere battlefield, and that there are different forces at play that simply human desires and wants. There are situations in which Dismas’ talents are necessary in order to achieve victory; besides, he’s not even that useless in battle , and he manages to pull his weight well.

It’s not about what an individual can do, but how well they work in a group, which makes him think that, even though the situation might be of a supernatural nature, it’s just like another battlefield.

Outside of the times they get sent out together, Barristan doesn’t see Dismas around much, at least at first. Judging by the way people who frequent this place even before Barristan’s arrival react at his presence at the guild, he must not be someone who comes here at all, and yet Barristan sees him there more and more often, most of the time requesting to spar and train specifically with him.

If, on one hand, he appreciates that he’s willing to hone his skills for the trials that await them, on the other he can’t help but to wonder the reason behind such a change.

He asks him, one day, while they’re taking a break from a strenuous sparring match. He likes to think that, were he in his prime, he would’ve defeated him easily, but he’s not that sure of it: Dismas is a slimy fellow who’s not above playing dirty. Good. Even though he doesn’t always condone it, sometimes resorting to dirty tricks is the only thing that will keep you alive.

“What’s gotten into you that you suddenly come here every day?”

“I don’t come here every day,” Dismas replies. Now, Barristan doesn’t know much of him outside their usual training sessions, but that’s an obvious deflect.

He only needs to glare at him, hands on his hips, for Dismas to roll his eyes and crumble, or well, his version of crumbling.

“You’re just a good sparring partner, that’s it,” he admits.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Barristan replies, genuine. Being able to teach has always made him happy, even though what he teaches regards fighting. As long as it keeps them all alive.

Also, for Dismas of all people to say this… Barristan knows that he’s a hard guy to impress, so it really means a lot to him.

He chuckles then, patting Dismas on the shoulder, almost sending him stumbling forward.

“You’ve already improved so much! See? It’s never too late to learn something new!”

At that Dismas squeaks indignantly, face red, and if looks could kill, Barristan wouldn’t be here anymore.

“Shut up! You’re older than me, old man!”

At those words, Barristan’s chuckle becomes a hearty laugh, which only serves to rile Dismas up more.

“That’s it, end of the break! I’m gonna show you now,” he says, stomping to the sparring grounds again.

He does certainly look younger when he acts this foolish, falling right into Barristan’s trap. Doesn’t he know that riling your enemy up in the first step for achieving victory?

Well, he will know shortly no matter what. It’s time for Barristan to teach another lesson.


	13. Musketeer

Things are bad, too bad: they’ve only just begun their expedition and they’ve already lost two companions. If they keep venturing further, they will all die.

The smartest thing would be to leave. That’s what Dismas wants to do, if only…

“No, we can’t leave!” Margaret, the other survivor, exclaims. She’s been in the Hamlet long enough not to be considered a newbie, but still not enough to be considered a veteran. Dismas knows that if they venture further he won’t be able to protect her. Of course, what truly matters is that he’d die too.

“Listen to me, girl. This expedition was doomed from the start! It won’t do us any good to stay here! Now move your ass and let’s leave.”

“You can leave if you want, but I refuse to run,” Margaret insists, crossing her arms over her chest. “Unlike you, I’m not afraid.”

Of all people why did Dismas have to stick with the glory hound?

“This isn’t about being afraid or not,” he tries to explain as calmly as he can, “It’s about survival.”

“No, I embarked on this quest and I shall see it through! I refuse to do something so cowardly! I never backed off from anything and I refuse to begin now!”

“When will you understand that this isn’t a game?!”

Dismas really didn’t mean to yell, but it had become too much. Eventually she has to realize that this isn’t a game at all, that lives are at stake here, and not only theirs! She needs to stop being this selfish, and if it’s him the one who has to tell her, then things must be _bad_ …

“I know it isn’t!” Margaret yells, fury evident in her voice. This has to be the first time Dismas has seen her lose her cool like this; it’s almost weird not seeing her usual cocky expression on her face, but he guesses it’s just because he’s not used to it.

“I know…” she repeats, gripping her rifle so hard that her knuckles go white.

It’s then that Dismas notices that Margaret’s trembling. Is it out of rage or… something else?

She always carries herself in a way that doesn’t make it so obvious, but now more than ever she looks so young. Dismas can’t help but to feel bad for having yelled.

In the end, everyone copes with this shit they’re dealing with in their own way, even if it means putting an excessive brave front and ramble about glory, hunting and missed shots, just like some others rely on heavy sarcasm and dry wit.

“Come here,” Dismas mutters then, inviting Margaret to come closer, pulling her into a gentle hug.

Her body tenses initially at the contact, but eventually she relaxes… At least until she begins to shake.

“It’s alright, you’re safe. You’ll be fine,” he mutters, caressing her back in a calming motion. Knowing that some people like coddling only so much, he then says, “We can always have a competition when we get back, what do you think? We could set some target in the training area and see who hits more of them.”

That proposal successfully brings a smile to Margaret’s lips.

“Yes, I’d love too,” she replies, pulling away from Dismas before drying her tears.

“So are we agreed that we should leave?”

Margaret nods weakly.

“Yes, let’s leave.”

“Good call,” Dismas says, resting one hand on her shoulder. “Next time we’ll get them, I promise.”

Margaret nods again but with more conviction this time. Yes, next time they’ll get them, not only for themselves, not only for glory, but also for their fallen comrades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for Dismas being an uncle of sort to Margaret


	14. Occultist

“Do you really trust that thing?”

Alhazred chuckles, despite the interruption of his evening mediation. He opens his eyes and he sees in front of him Dismas, the gruff highwayman who’s been helping the Heir retake control of the land from the occult forces from the start.

“I’m assuming you’re talking about this?” he asks, motioning towards the skull between his hands.

“Yes,” the thief replies, “Aren’t you afraid it’s gonna betray you?”

Ah, if Alhazred had a nickel for every time someone asked him that…

“I can assure you, master Dismas, that I can control my powers as much as they can control me.” He’s not lying: it’ll take more than this to make his will falter.

Dismas doesn’t say anything, but it’s clear that there are still things he’s wondering about.

Well, since he’s in a good mood, he can indulge him further.

“If there’s anything else that troubles you, you can ask away,” he says, inviting Dismas to sit down with him, which he does, though he doesn’t speak immediately.

They sit there, in silence, studying each other. It’s not a hostile atmosphere, however, something that pleases Alhazred.

“You said that you found this during an expedition, right?” Dismas asks then, and Alhazred nods. He never kept his occupation a secret, because he doesn’t think it should be. After all, if anyone asked him to describe himself, the first thing that would come out of his mouth would be a scholar.

“What weird kind of places do you go to?” the other continues then. Despite his words, his tone isn’t accusatory or anything. He’s genuinely curious to understand why someone would get voluntarily involved in all this - but after all, isn’t he also here, dealing with the supernatural?

That question provokes a chuckle from Alhazred.

“I’ve seen places not so dissimilar from the ones we are exploring now,” he says, scratching then his chin, pensive, “Though there weren’t nearly as dangerous.”

Dismas nods, though he looks unconvinced. Here’s the thing: he knows all about living a dangerous life, but he _didn’t_ _choose_ it. He simply had run out of options to make a living, so what else could he do, if not stealing? This is what he tells himself, at least, though there’s always that voice in the back of his mind that keeps telling him that it’s not true, that he _chose_ to live like this, that he could’ve found something else but instead went for the easy road, and for what? The thrill of it? Such a pathetic excuse.

Maybe this is why he’s so hanged up on this, on the fact that someone would voluntarily choose to live such a dangerous live and be fine with that choice, even to the point of admitting it freely and without regrets.

“But _why_?”

“Because you must know the entity you’re fighting against if you want to hope to defeat it,” Alhazred replies. It’s as simple as that. “Knowledge is our biggest weapon. We must use it.”

Dismas doesn’t reply immediately; he looks like he’s seriously considering what he just said.

“Makes sense I guess…” he mutters, but he soon continues. “Still, not something I would’ve done.”

“And that’s fine,” Alhazred chuckles, “We all have a different role in the grand scheme of things. It would be unwise to demand that everyone acts as one would.”

Dismas nods, still unsure of the complete truth of Alhazred’s statement. Yeah, he guesses that it would be pointless if everyone did the same thing. He’s particularly glad that he didn’t get Alhazred’s role, because he’s sure he wouldn’t have handled it well at all; he can fight all he wants, but controlling those things… He shivers just at the thought of it. Honestly he doubts he would be able to deal with that kind of stuff - he would’ve gotten crazy in a matter of seconds if he tried.

In the end it’s for the best that Alhazred has to take care of that and not him. Despite this, even he can’t deny how useful his eldritch powers are - he’s saved his butt with them who knows how many times.

They might be creepy as hell, but Alhazred is not; actually, he’s pretty pleasant to be around, not enough chatty to be annoying and not silent enough to be unsettling. He’s the perfect middle.

For all that it’s worth, at least, Dismas is glad that he’s on their side. Things would certainly be harder if he wasn’t.


	15. Plague Doctor

Paracelsus’ lab is a sight that Dismas has - despite himself - grown accustomed to. For sure it was surprising the first time he came around: he would expect a scientist to be more tidy with their stuff, but that’s not Para’s case, who seems to prefer having her things scattered around. She says that there’s actually a kind of order that she follows in the way she puts her things down, but Dismas doesn’t see it. Oh well, it’s not his problems after all.

What is he doing there this time anyway? For once he’s not bringing her any new samples to analyse, nor he’s there to get any treatment for his wounds.

No, what they’re doing is something else, even though Para didn’t exactly disclose what. She only said that he needed to give her some of his bullets and wait for her to finish, and that he was going to like what she was going to come up with it.

He sighs, tapping his fingers against the counter where she usually does her dissection, which however isn’t being used today.

What is being used, in fact, in the counter in front of it, but Dismas still can’t see much because Para is giving her shoulders to him, and somehow always manages to sense when Dismas tries to lean one way or another to get at least one quick look…

“No peeking!” Paracelsus exclaims, without fail, making Dismas jump a bit on his seat.

“I wasn’t peeking!” he defends himself, like she would ever believe that.

“Sure you weren’t,” she deadpans in fact, making Dismas roll his eyes. He knows she’s not looking at him, so she isn’t seeing it; he’s doing it out of principle.

“Whatever you say…”

After what feels like an eternity, Para finally seems to have finished whatever she was doing.

“I’m a genius!” she exclaims, raising her fists in the air in triumph.

“You done?” Dismas asks, but he doesn’t even need to hear a reply because Para turns towards him, bringing to the table the fruits of her experiment.

Those are…

“My bullets?”

“Tsk tsk, my dear Dismas,” Paracelsus begins, “These aren’t just your bullets…”

She agitates them right under his eyes, much to his irritation, but hey! He does notice something: it’s barely visible, but there are tiny capsules on their lower half! She must’ve clearly added them.

“Alright, and what do they do? Do they explode in a cloud of that nasty thing you like to use?”

Paracelsus snaps her fingers.

“I knew you’d get it,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll know how to put this limited number of special bullets to use, then you shall report back and tell me how well they served you. I’ve altered the formula I use a bit, so I expect a full report about it.”

It’s not a bad plan, not at all. Dismas was actually thinking about upgrading his flintlock some way, he just hadn’t thought about how he was supposed to go about it. These special bullets of hers are certainly going to be extremely useful in battle.

There’s one thing that doesn’t add up however, knowing Paracelsus, so Dismas can’t help but to ask:

“Why did you decide to let me try the new formula first, instead of doing it yourself? Afraid it’ll explode and kill me?”

“O-Of course not!” Para huffs immediately, crossing her arms to her chest and looking away. She plays the part of the offended person so well, but Dismas can see behind her façade.

Besides, it doesn’t last long, not when Paracelsus eventually sighs.

“No, it’s just that… I tried already, last expedition.”

“… And?”

“And…” Now Para has almost completely turned around for how hard she’s trying not to look at Dismas. “… I kept missing.”

There’s a beat of complete silence that almost makes Paracelsus relax, but of course eventually Dismas bursts into laughter at those words.

“You keep… missing?” he repeats, though here he is laughing again, even slapping a hand on his thigh for emphasis. Noticing the ugly gaze Para’s sending his way, however, he calms down. “Alright, I’ll try these for you, and when I get back I’ll give you a full report _and_ some aim practice.”

“I don’t need ‘aim practice’, thank you very much!” Paracelsus immediately retorts, only to add immediately, voice lower, “But if you’re willing to offer, I won’t offend you by saying no.”

Dismas smiles.

“We’ve got ourselves a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of all my Plague Doctors who keep missing all their fucking attacks. Go girls give me nothing <3


End file.
